Bronson

"That was a real kick and good for laughs and lashings of the old ultraviolent."

                           -Alex, a character from Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange.

“My name’s Charles Bronson. And all my life, I wanted to be famous. I knew I was made for better things. I had a calling. I just didn’t know what as. I wasn’t singing. Can’t fuckin act. Running out of choices really. Don’t we?”

                          - Charlie Bronson (nee Michael Peterson), a character in real life.

I normally don't like to begin reviews of a particular film with quotes from another but the imitative style and unapologetically derivative visual tone of Nicolas Winding Refn's Bronson is so overt that it could be considered a sequel to Kubrick's masterpiece. At the very least, a kindred spirit.

Which is not to say it's a bad film.

Quite the contrary. It's a marvelous bit of highly stylized brutality. But it would be markedly disingenuous to claim it does not borrow liberally from its predecessor.

As Tony Roberts' character admits in Woody Allen's Stardust Memories when a fan asks if their horror parody was an homage to House of Wax, "Homage? No. We just stole the idea outright."

And imitation is the highest form of flattery, is it not?

When culling film ideas for form and substance, you cannot do any better than pick from the tree of the master himself.

I was reminded of a similar effort back in 1995 called The Young Poisoner's Handbook. A nifty, enjoyable little movie about another British psychopath that lifted heavily from the Kubrick oeuvre. Even down to the music.

I wish more films strove for such excellence.

Before we get into listing the comparative themes - a bit of background on Bronson.     

It is based on a true story - the indescribably violent existence of a real life English convict (lauded as "Britain's Most Violent Prisoner") named Charlie Bronson (Michael Peterson) who affected the American movie star's name when he began work in the underground fighting circuit. He was born to and raised by respectable, conservative parents in Luton (where the "Silly Party" won!) but showed, from a very early age, an anti-authoritarian streak that would become both his undoing and path to legend. A small-time postal robbery landed him in the pen for seven years but, once in, his brutally violent nature compounded his time to, essentially, the rest of his life. He remains in prison to this day, nigh on thirty-six years after his first arrest. And for no greater crime (on the outside anyway) than petty theft. On the inside, however, his psychopathic nature and self-defeating penchant for violence has caused him untold sufferings - most, perhaps, completely deserved.

He is a very bad man, just bright and egotistical enough to believe his own bullshit to the point of vicious circuity.

Simply documenting his animalistic trappings would make for a very boring film for anyone not seeking a psych degree. But Refn and leading man Tom Hardy give us something unique. Neither paean to the lawless rebel or anthem to the misunderstood loner, Bronson becomes something higher and artistic, rising above the simple vulgarity of its subject into the fine air of operatic tragicomedy.

The intermittent narration (from Bronson via Hardy) with its heavy Anglican idiom will immediately recall Alex's from Clockwork, although a bit lower on the class scale. As the "humble narrator" preoccupies himself with bashing in the teeth and ribs of prison guards, Refn is busy too, demolishing the fourth wall. In addition to the narrative bits there is a running one-man stage performance from Bronson in front of a mock audience that segues the action, providing the film with an even greater sense of humor and arcane tomfoolery - much like the esoteric stage announcer (all 326 hours of him) in Hans-Jürgen Syberberg's masterful yet interminable Hitler: A Film From Germany.

The meat of Bronson follows the various routes that our antihero's imprisonment takes. From well kept cells to sanitariums to sadistically small cages. And this is where Refn's "homage" kicks in to high gear.

The ironic use of classical music throughout, overlain onto scenes of savage violence.

The narration mentioned above with its deliberately dissonant message.

The systemic inhumanity of the prison culture and those who oversee it.

The convenient machinations of a "law and order" government to avoid scandal.

Psychopathic and sociopathic disorders.

Violence equating to pleasure.

Sadomasochistic fantasy.

Drug experimentation on the criminally insane.

Alpha male behavior run amok.

The absurdity of celebrity rising from very anti-social behavior.

The inherent likeability of a very mean spirited git as a leading character.

Grinning, nasty humor.

And a direct rip off of framing, mise en scène and camera movement.

Again, if you've got to steal from someone...

The main allure of Bronson, however, is the strutting, brutish performance of Tom Hardy. His beneath-the-skin emotional boiling attached to a menacingly muscular frame proves very intimidating. From his booming, gravelly voice, the purposeful gait, the piercing gaze, the bushy moustache, the bald pate, the clenching fists and the rippling shoulders and biceps - he commands a great deal of physical respect. Think the innerving volatility of Robert Carlyle's Begbie from Trainspotting mixed with the wiry intensity of Ben Kingsley from Sexy Beast. And then put them both on steroids and drop their IQs twenty points.

Hardy is brimming with that sort of energy throughout. Even when he is stylistically clowning it up as storyteller on the imitation stage he has formidable presence. I suspect (I've been wrong before about these things) he'll make the jump to star status in the States sometime in this decade.

Someone's got to fill that Heath Ledger void, right? Russell Crowe's a bit long in the tooth now, innit he?

Bronson is a strange little film. It edges along a path of familiarity but keeps the audience off balance most of the time. You don't root for this guy. You shouldn't like him. He deserves most every beat down he gets and he's his own worst enemy. He's a prick. A  loser. A hyper-violent asshole. An expendable dooooosh. So, why did I like this film?

For lack of a better explanation, the best thing about it is, it's never the film you want it to be.

It has it's own agenda.

Never preachy or academic, it's about an irredeemable gobshite who truly belongs in prison because he's too dumb and mean to exist in any tolerant society.

And the resurrection of Kubrick's ghost is most welcome these days. Hell, Avatar will be the biggest money maker of all-time and probably win "Best Picture". Sandra Bullock is about to receive an award for, get this, acting.

So I finally figured out why the caged bird sings.

To drown out all the other fucking noise out there.



Comments

[jjmitch21]

Brilliant film, brilliant soundtrack! Why do I love this criminally insane Michael Peterson dude so much? He's just a LIKEABLE character!